Steal me away from this Empty Paradise
by joyeleanor
Summary: AU fiction. Blair is a princess, an ocean away from New York. What or who will it take to return her to her true kingdom?
1. Chapter 1

**An AU fiction. Assume that Blair and Chuck only know each other in passing from school and mutual friends, Chuck is also a couple of years older.**

* * *

It is like falling into a childhood dream. Chandeliers cast shafts of light which bounce off champagne glasses and reverberate on the diamonds in the tiara that adorns her head. Blair thinks of the women who have worn the headdress before herself. Had they held their heads high as the lavish diadem spoke for them, the clusters of jewels proclaiming their status, their superiority, or had it imprisoned them, the priceless gems akin to lead balls?

Louis's arm around Blair's waist offers no support as he tugs her across the ocean of bodies, from dignitaries to fellow monarchs, their names drummed into her head, polite greetings on her painted lips. The men and women smile in response and out slip insincere pleasantries from mouths greased by veal and a good vintage. Compliments fill the air easily, she is beautiful they say. It flits across Blair's mind, how long does it take once another group of similarly dressed personages has engulfed her before they speak what they truly think, 'so thin', 'no child', 'was there no other woman suitable to be princess of Monaco?'.

A man Blair recognises, but not from the usual social elites that populate the ballrooms, is speaking, he talks of how glamorous the occasion is and how blessed the charity is to have her and Louis as representatives. She remembers where she knows him from, an article written six or seven years since, 'Monarchy Unnecessary in Today's World'. A younger her had scoffed and turned the page, safely tucked up room in a far from this place where the wall was painted with Marie Antoinette's image and her illusions were un-shattered. What could have bought him, to make him put down his critical pen and instead wax lyrical his excessive praise? Money? Love? Or had he, like her, been foolish.

But now another man stands and calls their attention as he talks images flash up on a screen behind him, the starving, so malnourished that every rib is visible, Blair thinks of her own, barely disguised beneath layers of purple chiffon. This man however may have something few others in the room possess, he does care, his words about the needy and the impoverished are said with passion and without the need for lies or embellishment. His words are moving, partygoers are silent as they listen. Then without even a trace of irony they all raise their glasses and drink five hundred-dollar a bottle Dom.

Bodies shift and Blair finds herself being led to the front, Louis and her swing to face each other, two cold hands find one another, her other on his shoulder gripping the expensive material, his almost encircles her tiny waist. Blair can smell his cologne, citrusy, she didn't buy it for him, his sister maybe, more likely his mother. They pirouette together; her stomach already emptied in the plush bathrooms lurches sharply, like a child on a fairground ride, except she can't get off. All eyes are on them, on her, a mere year or so ago she would have enjoyed this, being the centre of attention, there is no halo of golden hair swaying to sound of her own childlike giggles to detract from this moment, yet Blair betrays herself by wishing there was. Thankfully more couples join them on the floor and before too soon they can part, Louis escapes, maybe to find a partner more solid, who grins at him without the weight of duty behind her eyes. It crosses Blair's mind that tonight may be the night he doesn't crawl into their cold bed in the early hours, that he doesn't return at all, this doesn't upset her like she knows it should. Now adrift on the dance floor she departs to the flash of a camera's light, her back straight, her smile is in place and the tiara perfectly balanced. Other men's offers of a go around the floor are avoided as Blair flees to the veranda, maybe there she can breathe.

However Blair is dismayed to find it occupied, a woman in puffy, pink evening gown obscures the view of another guest, a man? The woman appears to be annoyed about something, no dance, a wine stain on her dress; the problems of the women who frequent these types of parties are innumerable and always trifling. Never mind, the balcony is long and Blair can walk to the other end and have her own space.

The view should be spectacular; the lights of Monaco harbour are laid out before her. But Blair looks beyond the luxuriant buildings, the still bustling docks to the ocean. Water, which stretches out to touch the toes of the Statue of Liberty and her home, the thought is comforting. But she is still weighed down by the tiara about her head, the rings around her fourth finger and even the cross about her neck.

"Beautiful isn't it." The voice steals her from her reverie. The speaker is a man not far along the balcony, dressed in black tie, except for the pocket square, purple, they match. He isn't looking at the view. He sounds American; it only takes her a second to locate it as New York. Home. So she says what would otherwise have caused a minor scandal in the Monégasque papers if said to anyone else.

"There is no city comparable to New York". She responds in her native tongue, as he spoke to her in it.

He approaches, his angular cheekbones made clearer in the light from window to her back. "It would a sin to disagree with you, your serene highness." He adds her title as an afterthought.

"I seem to be at a disadvantage, you know who I am, but I am afraid I do not think we are introduced". And she does not recognise him, although she feels she should and not just because she had planned the guest list herself, but because he feels familiar, his features scraping at her memory.

"I'm Chuck Bass" His delivery is swift, well-practised and releases a reserve of memories Blair has tried to leave behind on the island that was once her domain. Recollections of her as a slight freshman on low steps, still scheming to be queen, head adorned proudly with a headband, and hand encased in the warm grip of her beautiful best friend. Looking out across at a boy, her then prince, chestnut hair and kind eyes, long before the hand that had held hers would snatch him away, sending Blair floating to this place and into another false prince's arms. Yet on the spare occasion her eyes had shifted up from her prize prince they had set upon another boy, an upperclassman and self-proclaimed king, surrounded by a gaggle of girls and holding a dubious roll-up. As a girl her thoughts towards him were of undisguised disgust and a secret curiosity. She knows him and he knows her, truly knows her, not the princess twirling on the ballroom floor, but the queen reigning from stone steps.

There is a moment of shared understanding that passes between them, it makes his smirk broaden,

So she asks "How is the island". What she means is 'How is the kingdom' and he knows it.

"The New York Ballet has started a new run of Swan Lake, rumour is Tripp Van der Bilt is set to divorce his wife, the leaves are starting to fall in central park."

Blair knows she should ask after Serena and Nate, it's what is expected of polite conversations, to ask after mutual friends, even if said friends are at present more enemies, but he's already trespassing, bringing New York here to her new kingdom she isn't going to encourage more encroachment. Despite this it occur to her his well know deviancy must be rubbing off on her because she also knows it's not appropriate for her, a married women, a royal no less, to be alone with a man who's reputation makes debutantes and thrice married upper east side matrons alike blush.

"Are you here for long Mr Bass." Her upbringing slips in and she can't help but add a little propriety to the situation, his Christian name too familiar, yet somehow it feels right.

He leans against the balcony, his eyes not leaving hers. "A little longer, I'm here on business, a new hotel."

Blair had heard about the hotel of course, it had polite society all a titter. Decadent and if the rumours were true all it took to have a girl of whatever hair colour, ethnicity or bra size was your flavour sent to your room was a call to the front desk.

"Ah yes, when is the official opening?"

"Next week" He retrieves a silver cigarette case and lights up. "You and your husband have been invited naturally."

Raising an eyebrow Blair quips "I don't think that it would be considered appropriate."

He offers her the case, she hasn't smoked since junior year of College and even then it was only the odd one at parties, tar stained fingers and teeth are not attractive, yet she craves one more than she has in years. But she thinks of the looks she will get for even the slightest scent of tobacco, she shouldn't be standing this close to him. She shakes her head and he returns the case to his inside jacket pocket.

"The Monegasque Commerce Board will be there. I promise you it will all be very tame. " Then he adds with flourish of his cigarette "Maybe not in the suites, but that's the customers' business. No, I assure you that you will be able to navigate the main rooms without the threat of even a small scandal."

It crosses Blair's mind if he is aware that at this, one of the most puritanical balls on the Monegasque social calendar, he was participating in an exchange which if seen would itself create a public disgrace. The thought of this caused an inappropriate burst of excitement in her and she leaned in closer to say with a quirk of her lips, "If the Board of Commerce is there then it must be completely proper." They both knew that many the esteemed members of the Board would no doubt ditch theirs wives some point in the evening to taste a little of the improbity in those backrooms themselves.

The butt of his cigarette is dropped to the floor and he crushes it with the heel of his shoe, Blair watches as the black ash mars the white marble.

"You will love it."

It takes her moment to realise he is talking about the opening.

Chuck catches her gaze; his eyes appear black under the moonlit sky. She wants to say something, but before it can form on her lips the door to the veranda slams open and the woman in the pink evening gown strides out.

"Chuck," The woman near shrieks "You promised me you would dance". She catches sight of Blair and for a moment seemed about to make a comment to her, before her eyes fix on the tiara and realisation dawns about who she was about to insult, obviously lacking in any education in the art of decorum she half drops into a curtsy, before thinking the better of it and straightening up.

"You're Highness". It's the wrong way to address her and the Blair of a few years ago would have informed the pink pleb of that fact and sharply, now she simply settles for the most scathing glance she can summon. It isn't as if the woman doesn't deserve it, aside from the title mistake she is dressed in a far too low cut dress to pass as suitable for anywhere other than a strip club.

Chuck dismisses her quickly. "Crystal, I'll be two minutes." And with a nod and a sheepish glance she scarpers back inside.

The woman's name makes Blair want to squirm, what was she a playboy bunny? Then she remembers who her escort is and it occurs to her that she may well be.

He's back to looking at her now. "I look forward to reacquainting myself with you at the opening. " Then with a look which Blair knew could only bring trouble he took her hand and kissed it.

"Mr Bass, I hope you enjoy the rest of the ball." She replied in what she hoped could pass as her most dignified tone.

"Blair Waldorf, I assure you this night has been made." The way he said her name, not her title or her married name, her name sent shivers down her spine. Then with one final appraisal of her from Manolo Blahniks to that wretched tiara and he slipped back into the light of the party.

She gave it two minutes before her own return, she had been gone a long time and she gathered from the looks she received it had not gone unnoticed, but for some reason she did not care. For the next hour or so she danced with the few men she was expected to pour attention upon. She did not see Mr again and knew he had likely moved on with his lady friend, to casino perhaps to no doubt risk more money than he had donated at the Charity Ball. Eventually she made her excuses and returned to the palace without her husband.

In years to come Blair would remember that as the night she encountered Chuck Bass, but incidentally it was also the first night her husband did not return to their bed.

* * *

**Critique! I'd love to hear what you liked and disliked about the chapter, I'm really keen to improve my writing abilities, so tell me if you think this horrendous. I've never written this fandom before so I'll have to see where this goes.**


	2. Chapter 2

As a freshly made bride Blair had entered the Prince's Palace and it was as if she was entering a fairy-tale. Then she had not doubted her own ability to shake off the sceptics of her marriage, those who had said she was an unfit addition to the dynasty that Grace Kelly and was synonymous with. The unforgiving commentary still hurt now, she wasn't pretty enough, so she lost weight, then she too thin and set a bad example for young girls. She remembered calling it a 'Storm in a teacup', almost two years on and she was not so optimistic ; the issues over her weight still dragged on, whether it was comparisons to Princess Diana's struggles or pleas from self-promoting female shock-jock TV anchors crying out about what a person like her said about the female condition. Then there was the talk of children, every week it seemed another article was speculating over if she was expecting or if not; why she wasn't she pregnant yet? Blair detested the whole matter.

The unassailable Eleanor Waldorf phoned the afternoon after the ball, in her Parisian apartment she had seen photos from the event in the Le Monde newspaper, she didn't comment on the sub-heading which declared Blair_ 'La Princesse Anorexique'_, but was annoyed about her daughter's choice of dress.

"Mother you said to wear that dress; it's from your new collection." Blair was perched on a stool in her study and with her spare arm swirled the remains of her tea in the bottom of her cup.

"Yes dear, but in the carnation pink, not the pansy purple, it makes you look like a mourner next to all those other gaily dressed women."

"Princess Sophie wanted me to wear that particular colour and child starvation in the horn of Africa is not a cheerful issue."

"Well Blair, I apologise for offering my advice, who am I as a merely an illustrious fashion designer and you my daughter wearing one of my designs. I probably won't sell many more of those know you've resigned it to the fashion blunders section of the glossy magazines." With that Blair heard the bang of her mother slamming down her phone 500 miles away.

Blair wondered when exactly she had reverted to the age where she could no longer dress herself. Examining the newspaper in front of her, her mother was right though, it didn't hang well, it was too loose; it had been a size 2. She hadn't been a 2 since high school, but then she had been happy in high school; adoring boyfriend and a best friend who was like a sister. College however had shown all that to be lies. Blair needed to be better, she had been happy in high school, but ignorant, and she needed to be better than that. The crackers she had eaten at lunch turned uncomfortably in her stomach.

* * *

Louis returns from wherever he has been in time for an early supper, he makes no mention of his absence last night and neither does Blair, she feels no jealousy, but she rarely feels anything these days. The chef serves Coq au Vin and they make small talk for a while, politics, an opera Louis wants to see, even the weather, before he casually adds, "Oh and we've been invited to the opening of that new hotel, in the bay."

"Oh yes, Le Hôtel Lierre."

"The Board of Commerce is going, so we should attend too. You don't have to say long, just for an hour or so, I'll stay on."

Louis was many things, a prince, a mummy's boy, but a liar he was not. Blair on the other hand was a seasoned liar and could spot one a mile off, or in this case the length of the table. She guessed he was probably intending to meet his woman in a suite after she had left. But she didn't miss a beat before replying lightly, "That's a relief, my poor feet have been murder all week." She cuts a slice of the heady chicken and forces herself to chew, her mouth dry.

A servant enters and says Louis has an urgent call on the line; he leaves to take it in the other room. Blair can see him through the crack in the door, pacing, lips forming rapid French. He is handsome, there is no questioning that, the day she met him she had thought he looked like he was Prince Charming, lifted from a Disney tale into the Musée d'Orsay and she didn't even have to try to imagine the storyline it was already laid out before her; the two of them brought together by Mont's Le déjeuner sur l'herbe. But Blair had never been a Disney girl, but a black and white dreamer; she should never have been looking for a Prince Charming, but a Cary Grant.

Louis disappears from view and Blair leaves the table, meal mostly untouched, she has a meeting with her priest to prepare for.

* * *

After changing into a conservative navy dress and ensuring her cross is chained securely about her neck, they take their tea in one of her personal rooms adjoining the bedroom, the walls are lined with frescos of flowers and the high ceiling has a gold gilded pattern upon it. Father Cavalia always insisted on having their meetings in the late afternoon before evening services, it also means he can drop in on Princess Sophie after, no doubt to fill her in on whatever Blair has said.

He is far too young and pretty to have made it to such seniority so soon; she wonders who he fucked to make it happen, Beatrice? Princess Sophie?

"Have you been saying your prayers my child."

"Yes Father." And she has. Her conversion to Catholicism was rushed to give her marriage to a future Head of a Catholic state validity, yet she had enjoyed the comfort of entering an institution unchanged for centuries when her own world was changing so rapidly. It had however backfired, with the press calling her a 'Catho-fake'. Ever since Princess Sophie had insisted on these weekly 'talks' to ease her image overhaul from eating disorder plagued, social climbing, money grubbing American who lacked social graces to be a modest, kind hearted wife, devoted to the needy and her church. In the past two years Blair had doled out soup to the homeless, trying not to make her disgust at their un-bathed bodies too obvious, spent hours on her knees praying before an ivory effigy of the Virgin Mother, memorised the faces of hundreds of dignitaries and navigated her way through six course meals without even a greenish tinge. Yet nothing appeased the public, she was still an error made in haste that Louis would come to regret. They were right in there at least, she was clueless as to why Louis had married her in the first place, a delayed rebellion against his controlling mother perhaps?

"You will be at mass tomorrow, yes?" Had she ever missed it? Once with food poisoning and she was near crucified for it by the broadsheet newspapers.

"Of course Father."

Father Cavalia leaned in, although it was only them in the room.

"Now my child, have you had any blessings in regard to an heir?"

Blair is disgusted at the idea of discussing such a personal matter with someone with such obviously self-interested motives, although what was said in this room was supposed to be between them and the almighty she knew he fed every last detail into Princess Sophie's arbitrating head and no doubt he would tell anyone else, should he think it may add money to this pockets or prestige to his name. No, this man was no more a confidant to her than Judas had been to the Messiah himself. With those thoughts resounding in her head Blair gave her most modest smile and said sweetly. "Unfortunately the Lord has not seen fit to bestow that gift upon us. We both hope that soon…"

Cavalia takes her hands in his and nods, his eyes glistening with false sympathy. "Until then you are in my prayers."

There is a moment that between them, when they are both simultaneously aware of the others insincerity. Then the Father removes his hands and stands to leave.

"I will look for you tomorrow Father at Mass." The implication is clear; she knows what his game is and will beat him at it.

He responds with a twitch of the lips and departs.

* * *

Late at night as the clock on the mantle ticks past 12 in the unlit cavern of the bedroom, Blair lays alone in her marital bed; her head near swallowed by the pillows and only then does she dare to allow her traitorous mind to drift across an ocean to city which she felt an uncontrollable bond to. She longs for an unadulterated skyline of glass, metal and concrete rather than Monaco's lush hills, palm trees and Mediterranean white architecture. She craves the stone steps of the Met beneath her feet and the rich smell of Dean and Deluca coffee, she wants to traipse around Bergdorfs, Barneys, Saks and Bloomingdales with a free-spirited blonde, she wants her home, a penthouse high in the clouds, where a polish maid clucks about her.

In the morning Blair will wake to eat alone and dress in clothes she will not have chosen, to entertain people she doesn't like and then sit with a mother-in-law who abhors her who will dictate the guest list of the next set of celebrities she has to charm on another day of the same artificial pleasantries. Maybe then a new dress, this one longer, perhaps designed by her mother, this one requires the accessory of a man with a ring matching her own, who will look at her as he would a passer-by on the street. Then to a room of lights and faces that meld together, and golden bubbles on an empty stomach.

But for now she will sleep and exist only an ocean way among the skyscrapers, looking possibly for the man with the dark eyes with the and sharp planes of his face which mirror the angles of the rooftops in the city they both call home.

* * *

Several days later she's on a friend of Louis's yacht out on the Mediterranean Sea, an event that Blair supposes should be fun, a break from the more formal events that filled her calendar, the crowd was younger than at the usual parties she attended and both the alcohol and gossip was flowing. But even here where the tiara is absent she still feels the weight of all it represents. Louis has gone to sit inside with old school friends, leaving her on deck with a group of heiresses and millionaires' girlfriends and in some cases mistresses. They talk about shoes, diets and throw empty compliments around like confetti. Despite the heat Blair had covered up in her already modest swimsuit with both a floral maxi dress and wrap, she had lost whatever body confidence she could summon these days among this particular exhibition of exposed flesh and skimpy string bikinis. One of the more vapid members of the group had beckoned over an unsuspecting male bystander to slather lotion all over her back, this allows the near constant focus on her to shift to a new distraction and Blair takes the opportunity to rise from her sun lounger to slip below desk away from the scorching sun.

Her toes sink into the plush carpet, she ambles along unsure of what she looking for, admiring the maritime themed artwork which lines the cabin walls. The sound of laughter and French from a native tongue escapes from behind double doors, pushing one door several centimetres open she sees her husband amid a group of males and females, most she recognises as the friends who looked disapprovingly on her at the wedding or the few failed attempts Louis had made to assimilate her among them. He looks happier than she has seen him in months, a woman, Estee if she recalls, leans across and whispers something in his ear and he laughs and smiles at her, real smile which made his eyes twinkle, Blair can scarcely recall if he had ever looked at her like that. Quietly Blair shuts the door and with her hands presses down on the space between the lowest points of her ribs until her nails dig into the skin and it hurts, she needs a drink.

The bar is dark and seemingly empty, they're serving champagne by the bottle on deck, and so there is no need to venture below deck.

"Can I get you something?" Or apparently there is.

She makes out a figure behind the bar, an expensive haircut and dark eyes.

"Bass?"

"Waldorf."

It isn't accurate or proper, but for some reason she doesn't correct him.

"Have you taken up bartending?"

Chuck raises a glass of scotch. "I prefer decent malt to champagne."

Blair nods; sometimes it feels like she lives on diet of champagne and syrup of ipecac.

He starts pouring bottles and eventually presents her with a Margarita, she sips.

"Lemon?"

"I find it gives a softer edge."

They sit for a while in companionable silence and drink. Then Chuck pours himself another finger of scotch and asks "Why are you down here, shouldn't you be upstairs soaking up the spotlight?"

"Too warm." Blair retorts.

"Then wear less."

"And give perverts like you something to leer at, I think not."

He smirks, but doesn't deny it.

"Have you left Crystal upstairs, I'd say this is her kind of crowd?" Blair thought the busty blonde would have fit right in among the crowd of mistresses.

"She had to work a flight back to Singapore."

"You bring an air-hostess to an elite ball? Why am I not surprised, is there not a rule against fraternising with customers?"

"I defer, her badge pledged to give a pleasurable in-flight experience, which assure you she did. She wasn't my girlfriend."

"No, she probably has boyfriend somewhere who agrees with you."

He laughs.

She asks "Then shouldn't you be up there then finding your next target?"

"Maybe I'm down here finding my next target."

Blair feels a sense of foreboding; she was married and did not need photos of her flirting with a playboy to give more fodder to the tabloid attacks on her. "You can't joke about things like that."

"I wasn't."

She looks up into his eyes and prays she doesn't find anything other than mirth there. But he looks pained.

"I know you." He murmurs.

Blair doesn't like where this is going. "No you don't."

"You're lonely. You're in a loveless marriage, no true friends, the press who don't even know you revile you, your mother no doubt puts you down from hundreds of miles away, which you don't need as you've already got your mother-in-law breathing down your neck and things must be strained with your father, where is he by the way the south of France? Yes Blair you're lonely."

"How dare you." She hisses

"You've been lonely since the day you walked in your best friend and your boyfriend together."

The sound of her hand against his cheek resounds around the room.

"You would know."

"I would." he admits.

"You've been alone your entire life, no one understands you, especially since your father died. Not that he ever approved of you when he was alive." Blair knows she's hit his jugular from the shadow that passes across his face.

"That's true."

"You don't know me, we barely spoke in high school, you were an upperclassman, I only knew you as my boyfriend's best friend and for a brief time my best friend's stepbrother. I saw you at parties surrounded by skanks or on the fringes of society events drinking scotch."

"Those are my favourite past-times." Then Chuck looks serious for a moment. "But I do know you; I watch people, their interactions, their expressions, when they escape to the bathroom after a few judgemental words from their mother." She clutches the glass a little tighter. "The looks one man sends over his wife's head to a male model across the room."

"Enough. I will slap you again."

"I don't doubt it darling."

The need to hit him or scream at him, just do something to stop him looking at her and knowing that all she appeared to the world was fake was overpowering. The idea that he knew that she was no immaculate princess or even the harlot the papers made her out to be, just a pitiful little girl who couldn't keep her food down, unloved by her husband, parents or friends.

She pushes her glass away and stands. "If you even breathe a word of this conversation-". He reaches out to grasp her wrist.

"I'm not going to say anything. Sit down." He sound exasperated. Sharply she yanks her hand away.

"So you can insult me some more, no thank you. If I wanted to be offended I'd read a newspaper, go to hell Bass." With a parting glare she storms out of the room.

* * *

The conversation in the bar weighs heavily on Blair's mind over the next few days and as she was strewn out on her bed attempting to plan the seating arrangements for another Monte Carlo dinner she found herself unable to concentrate, she has to go to his God forsaken opening the next day. But Blair Waldorf does not back down from a fight, especially when the opponent is a good for nothing nouveau riche with a tramp on each arm.

As Sun Tzu had said well 'Know Thy Enemy' and although written with ancient Chinese military strategy in mind Blair thought it translated equally well to the modern day. It was also made easier by the fact Bass's life had been charted rather thoroughly by the world media and sure enough there was a stockpile of photos of him falling out of nightclubs in the early hours. His Wikipedia page listed his age as 27 and his occupation as a Business man and Entrepreneur, it stated how he dropped out of Princeton, which she could guarantee he hadn't gotten into on merit alone, after his father had died less than six months after college had begun. It talked about his father's fatal traffic collision rather a lot, how his driver had also died and that the other driver involved in the collision had been double the drink drive limit. She remembered Serena going to the funeral and talking about how Bass had turned up drunk and on God only knows what other illegal substances and how Nate had to stop him from starting a fight. Blair had been in Paris with her mother or else she might have gone to support Serena and her mother, Lily. Not that it had taken Lily long to move on, less than a year later Blair was a guest at her wedding to an ex-rock star, or something equally low-brow, Bass hadn't made an appearance. There were hyperlinks to his step-mother and a particular blonde step-sibling's pages, which Blair deftly avoided, there had already been enough unpleasant reminisce without adding to it, whatever curiosity she had would only result in upset when she read 'fiancée to Nathanial Archibald' or otherwise what a success Serena had made of her life.

It had been tricky at first to avoid seeing or reading about her ex-best friend, it had required an un-subscription to Gossip Girl and a complete circumvention of OK magazine and any other tabloids, until they started writing about herself and even then she had to become pretty selective about which pages she was looking at. Somehow though Blair doubted not knowing the Kardasians gym secrets hadn't harmed her too much.

Scrolling down her screen she saw a domain which she recognised instantly, Gossip Girl, knowing that it was probably her best source for scandal which Blair could turn against him should he attempt to humiliate her she clicked the screen open. It's familiar graphic's loaded, the latest blast declared 'Why the tears Jenny, rejected again?', a blonde haired, bambi legged girl, who for one horrendous moment Blair thought was Serena, sat in a doorway looking distressed. Not caring about this apparent new it girl Blair searched 'Chuck Bass', the page counters shot up, realising that she would be here all night if she was going sort through that, she specified 'this month', which cut it down a bit. 'Chuck at airport, where is he headed?', 'Chuck oversees new Monte Carlo Hotel watch out Monaco', 'Chuck with blonde cutie in tow', the list went on. It soon became apparent that the most she would get from the website were mundane descriptions of his clothing; GG had clearing gone downhill since she had graced its homepage. As this thought crossed her mind she saw her name in the navigation bar of the site and she couldn't help but click it- 'Manhattan's girl done good looks thinner than ever in recent-'. She slammed the laptop lid down and tossed the gadget across the bed what was she expecting though, that the website that had hounded her in her youth would let up because it was no longer her only attacker?

Clearly getting scandalous info was easier for Chuck than it was her, evidently she was out of practice, no matter she would enjoy retraining her scheming muscles. In fact why was she worried about a measly businessman, albeit a rich one, when he was in her kingdom, quite literally? Everyone was always emphasizing the Grimaldi family influence, maybe it was time wield some of that power.

* * *

At dinner she and Louis make small talk and ate cheese soufflé, which wouldn't stay in her stomach for long, a society brunch had already more than filled today's calorie quota.

"Louis sweetheart, this hotel opening tomorrow night."

"Yes ma chérie?"

"I was wondering if we should be going. In my talks with Father Cavalia he has advised against such decadence" Her and Cavalia had never had such a conversation, but Louis was not to know this. "Luke 12:33 says 'Sell your possessions and give to the poor' and then there is the owners reputation, Corinthians 6:18 also states 'Flee from sexual immorality.'" She didn't mention the hypocrisy of her statement, him having an affair and they also sat in a palace, talking about sexual immorality and the sin of excess.

Regardless Louis insisted. "I have given my word, we have to I am afraid, it would be impolite to back out this late." He swallowed a forkful of soufflé and moved the conversation onto art.

There had been a time when Louis had been unable to resist her any wish, before he had realised that the doe-eyed innocent Blair Cornelia Waldorf had a black scheming heart. Then again she remembered his guilt the other week, this mistress, perhaps Blair could turn this event to her advance. Tomorrow she could find out who the irksome other woman was in order to allow Blair to formulate her plan to remove the harlot, along the way show Louis that she was still the pure little bride he had married and rescue the fairy-tale in time for some romantic, long range, but tipped off by her to allow for impeccable styling, photos to surface. Which would in turn warm the hearts of the populace to her and then to top it off a pregnancy and Chuck Bass's humble return to New York. Smugly Blair thought; Stalin should have taken lessons from her when formulating the Five Year Plan.

* * *

**I didn't really like this chapter, it felt a bit like a filler. But the next chapter is the opening so hopefully that should be interesting. Thank you for the lovely reviews from Nikki999 and as you were.**


	3. Chapter 3

Dressed in a flowing red dress Blair on the arm of Louis makes her entrance to the L'Hôtel Lierre in a plume of paparazzi, the resplendent foyer was filled with glamorously dressed socialites sipping champagne and chatting, some were making their way up the sweeping stairway to assumedly the private suites. Blair lifted her head to examine the vaulted ceiling intricately decorated with mosaic patterns of flowers and ivy.

"Stunning isn't it?"

Blair's teeth grated at the sound of the bastard's voice, she took a few more moments before plastering on a faux smile and facing him. Bass was immaculately presented as always in black tie, his arrogant smile, that was becoming all too familiar, was also in place.

"Your Serene Highness'." Addressing both Blair and her oblivious husband beside her.

Louis grasped Basses offered hand to give it perfunctory shake. "Mr Bass, yes we were both admiring the ceiling, is it newly done, it looks quite renaissance?"

"It's reconstructed and restored from a demolition marked building in Italy, the conservationists were a nightmare to dodge." On the surface Chuck appeared as the civil host, but Blair caught the devious look he was sending her over Louis's shoulder.

"Well you can't blame them." Blair smiled sweetly. "It's so pretty it really should be somewhere where the public can see it."

"They can, only for the price of a suite." Chuck's eye's met her heated glare "But, you don't have drinks, please, the bar is this way."

Once both she and Louis had been secured a drink and Louis was deeply in conservation with a member of the commerce board about stock prices Chuck leaned across and whispered in her ear. "Has anyone told you that you look gorgeous tonight?"

"Stop it Bass, I don't know what game you're playing but it ends here. You return to New York soon which allows me to continue to happily preside over this nation without your aggravation."

"Now, now sweetheart is that anyway to speak to a guest in your great nation." He took a lascivious sip of his scotch; the amber liquid glistened on his pink lips. "Besides this hotel takes a lot of running I may need to hang around a little longer."

If they weren't in a public place Blair would have thrown her drink in his smug face. As she glared she realised that this was the first time since their reintroduction that she had seen him in the light, under the glow of the chandeliers and out of the shadows his edges looked too harsh and without the shelter of darkness he looked oddly exposed. Maybe it was this brief show of vulnerability or the fact that Estee, in a burnt orange dress that hugged in all the right places, had slid up to Louis and wrapped her arm round his waist, but Blair found herself smiling up at Chuck and saying; "Well can you spare a little time out of your busy night to show me some of these beautiful period features?"

His arm around her waist he guided her to a bust of a woman, naked from the chest upwards on a marble plinth.

"Another pillaged antiquity?" Blair enquired  
"I'm afraid so. It was looted by Napoleon from Naples in 1806 and passed from buyer to buyer for two hundred years"

"This entire hotel appears to be a reconstitution of ancient items. It seems almost a perversion to have them here in this remodelled building, to serve out their days as part of modern society's pursuit of its desires, whether they are intoxication, financial or carnal."

Chuck looked at her and responded "But things must adapt. Here they are seen and appreciated, would you rather them hidden away in a private collection gathering dust, just to keep their sanctity intact? Although you may well, monarchy is itself outdated after all."

She frowned. "Yes I suppose someone such as you would see things that way, how many generations ago were the Basses scratching a living on construction sites?"

"My grandfather, he made sure my father finished school and Bart ended up working in the same skyscrapers his father had built."

"And here you are without any significant education." She returned sweetly.

"I graduated high school." Chuck smiled lazily.

"Off the back of fake results." He gave a conciliatory nod. "And then dropped out of Princeton! Who drops out of an Ivy?"

"And yet this hotel and the many Bass Industry achievements since my father's death are down to me, regardless of my lack of significant education." His voice was more than traced with arrogance.

This Blair had to concede, Bass Industries had flourished in spite of Bart Bass's passing.

"She's called Proserpina." Chuck muttered.

"I'm sorry?" She asked confused.

Chuck had turned back to examine the bust, but he repeated. "The bust. Proserpina, a roman deity, Pluto fell in love with her and stole her away to hell."  
"Roman Mythology? Ah, Pomegranate seeds?" Blair examined, remembering the tale of the goddess trapped in the underworld for 4 months of the year, hence winter.

"Yes that's the myth. A tragedy, albeit that this statue is more pleasant than the one in Rome. "

Blair had only been to Rome twice, once with Louis on official palace business and another time with her father, normally Italy had meant Milan fashion week with her mother and fashion week meant busy, busy and no time for travel. But she did recall between trips to the Teatro Argentina and the National Museum of Rome a gruesome sculpture at the Galleria Borghese. "The Rape of Proserpina, Bernini's sculpture. I didn't think you appreciated art Bass. But then you do value beauty."

"You give me too much credit; you forget you seemed to disapprove of the air hostess. But I really do hope you don't think me so fickle, beauty is valueless without substance."

Remembering the vacuous specimen that had hung off his arm a few weeks ago, she said scowling "Crystal certainly lacked substance."

He laughed. "Don't stereotype blonde air hostesses."

They moved away from the bust and the prying eyes of fellow guests, though an arch into an annex.

"Where are you taking me?" Blair said warily.

Taking her arm I led her forward, smirking. "I want you to see something."

They wandered into a plush, red room with high backed chairs and a selection of international newspapers spread across coffee tables. At first in the dim light Blair wasn't sure what she was looking for, then she saw hung along the longest wall of the room a photograph, a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline, lit up at night.

"Oh Chuck." It wasn't in itself spectacular, she could have googled a similar image, but seeing it here in this foreign city was comforting.

"I thought since there is no city comparable to New York I would bring a little of it here to Monte Carlo." His earlier bolster was diminished, instead he sounded softer, kinder even.

Blair could make out the outline of the Empire State Building and other familiar skyscrapers.

"I haven't been back since-"

She hears the soles of shoes on the varnished floorboards as he moves towards her and murmurs "I know." He was now standing close enough now for her to almost feel the heat of his body her back, making the downy hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and a visible tremble run through her body.

Shaking off the feeling Blair turns around and scowls. "Have you told them, Serena and Nate? They didn't send you here to spy on me did they?"

"Serena may once have been family and Nate is my friend, but even for them I wouldn't build a hotel merely as an excuse to get close to you." He was joking, but his expression was serious. "You really don't know what's happened in New York, do you?"

"No, why would I want to hear about them and their no doubt sublime fairy-tale existence. " She had returned to admiring the photograph and missed Chuck's pained expression. "Let me hazard a guess though, the wedding was on beach, they live in a white townhouse, Nate has balanced his families expectations with a career he loves and Serena flits from charity gala to fashion show, probably with a baby on the way. "

"Not exactly." His tone was strained, but Blair didn't hear it.

"She tried to come to the wedding. She stood outside the hotel I was in for hours, but I told them not to let her in." Then with bitterness she continued "She couldn't resist ruining what should have been the happiest day of my life."

"That wasn't her intention."

Blair swirled and glowered. "So you are in touch with her?"  
He sighs, exasperated "Not recently. She felt guilty, she wanted to fix things."

"She should feel guilty, she had an affair with my boyfriend, and I found them _in flagrante_." Blair hisses, the image of the two blondes writhing a bar stool burning behind her eyes.

Nodding he moves even closer to her, Blair is a little surprised not to see pity in his eyes, but something else, affection?

She can't stop herself before she blurts; "He's betraying me." Realising her tense and the agonising truth of it she abruptly corrects herself. "He betrayed me I mean."

Chuck runs his hand down her bare arm; it's beyond the realm of propriety but she lets him, nobody has been this tender and understanding to her in a long time. His fingers brush her sliver bracelet and the charms on it ring in the silence of the room like a wind chime.

Breaking the moment with hushed words Blair says "We should go back inside. You have been shockingly absent from the party."

"What a terrible host I've been." He said absentmindedly as he continued to trace the chains at her wrist.

The bright light of the adjoining foyer appears unwelcoming to them ensconced in the safety of the shadows, but she steps back into it, the feel of his gaze at her back. Now though the room is drained of people, a few still gathered at the bar, slouched over empty glasses, one she recognises as a Palace staffer, his eyes bleary and tie askew. She crosses the floor to him, not looking back.

"Gerald." Blair addresses him aloofly.

The staffer twists in his seat, almost sliding off, he slurs; "Your Serene Highness."

"Is my husband still here?" She looks for judgement in his eyes, but there is none, he mustn't have seen her sneaking in the annex and since it's his job to keep a hawk like watch on her, she can assume no one else had either.

Panic seemed to sober him up a little. "He went back to friend's house, school friend."

"I see." Blair's smile is fake, she knows he hasn't gone to anyone's house; he was still in this building, fucking his 'friend', which is made all the more humiliating by the fact the staff knew it too.

"I'll call for the car your Serene Highness."

"That won't be necessary Gerald." She responds curtly.

Dismissed he turns back to the bar and summons a bartender with an uncoordinated wave.

Blair looked up, Chuck was now standing at the top of the grand marble staircase, his expression was fixed and unreadable, she was sure hers was equally blank, despite the storm of emotions in her chest. It would have been easy to say her feet moved of their own accord, drawn by feelings she had never known, but the simple truth was she chose to walk up the white steps and slip her small, cold hand into his, letting him lead her down a corridor where the red mahogany doors couldn't dim the cries of pleasure and raucous laughter escaping them.

They slip into large room, ill-lit, but furnished finely, with one large bay window overlooking the port. But Chuck guides her towards the centerpiece of the room, a heavily cushioned canopy bed, with grand purple drapes.

He is warm, his mouth hot against hers, sharp teeth against her lip, scarlet talons mark a path across broad shoulders as fingers find a zipper and a waterfall of crimson silk plunges to the floor. Hands greedily caress lace clad curves; massage a soft breast until the rosy areola hardens under his thumb and a gasp escapes her plump lips. Limbs entangled, he falls back onto the bed and her thighs are astride him, tearing at white fabric, buttons fly across the sheets and he finds her clavicle, branding her with frantic kisses. Impatiently scant delicate lingerie is torn away and equally eager fingers nimbly pull at grey pants. Finally two naked, vulnerable bodies meet and hard meets soft in a melding of desire. He flips them and her back arches against silk sheets as they converge deeper, harder and his lips are wet, suckling her bosom, then grazing his mouth along her neck, until the silence is shattered by a shriek, followed by his shouts, as they find ecstasy together.

They shift their bodies and Blair sinks into the crook of his neck, secure, their skin, exposed above the sheets cools and their breath levels. Chuck's fingertips draw nonsensical signs on her soft skin and he nuzzles his nose into her silken hair and they drift into sleep.

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The morning sunlight breaks through violet curtains across Chuck's body lying prone on the rumbled sheets and he rises to find his arms empty.

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The bitter coffee catches in her throat, she reaches across to add more sugar, a few sips and she speaks. "I really don't know what you mean Father."

"If you were to talk about your struggle to conceive then it might endear you to the public." Cavalia speaks with false concern.

Blair shuddered, her current situation after the night before was apocalyptically bad and that was without the additional weight of her humiliating position as pitiful infertile woman of the year, although her lack of pregnancy was more related to a celibate marriage, despite the damage to her reproductive system from years of bulimia.

"I'm not going to prostrate my personal business to the glossy magazines Father Cavalia. "

"The problem your serene highness is the way you…reflect on the rest of the Royal family. Your apparent unpopularity cannot be quarantined to just yourself, it is being to make the people question Louis judgement, which in the direct heir is, as you can imagine, disastrous. The issue is that the people do not sympathise with your lack of child, they see you as bringing it on yourself, because of your history, your condition I mean."

"It isn't as if there is much I can do which I haven't already." She retorts as she slams the teacup and saucer onto the side table, making the delicate saint-cloud porcelain tremble.

"Well obvious seeing some specialists will have to be involved to determine if your body is beyond help and then we can take things from there. As for public perception Princess Sophie is loading more charity events onto your calendar." He say it like it's a kindness, a gift to have her thrust in front of more critics who would never be satisfied by her.

Having given up the pretence of politeness Blair spat out "Well Father I'm glad to see that between you and Sophie the situation is in hand."

They both rose and Cavalia took both her hand in her and said in earnest "We shall put our faith in God he has a plan for us all." And the priest took his leave.

Blair returned to her seat and delicately wiped her hands with a napkin. She caught her reflection in a ornate mirror, she was prim in kitten heels, a black pencil skirt and a grey role-neck sweater, self-consciously she pulled at the fabric hiding the shameful evidence of her indiscretion. A transgression she could never tell her priest or even dare whisper to God in the dark of night. No this was something that must be shut away and forgotten, only she and her accomplish knew and he was hardly going to tell anyone, his hotel was open and thriving and he had gotten what he wanted from her, now surely he would leave and Blair could focus on more dire matter, by which she meant the Louis crisis. Or would he keep mum, a married royal was coo for him, a boast to secure his reign as king letch for time immortal. Which would damage her already precarious position irrevocably and even without proof Louis could divorce her without making himself look bad in this strictly catholic nation, in spite of his own sins. Oh Lord.

The possibility of seeing him again really shouldn't have excited her this much.

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**What do you think? Was it OK? Thank you for the lovely reviews so far xxx**


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